Smother
by Kelpie the Thundergod
Summary: Why did everything between them always have to be obscured and hidden, and by their own doing at that?


**Smother**

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Lines borrowed from _Night Thoughts_ by Edward Young.

A/N: betaed by the lovely Celesma, thank you very much, dear :) you know I never would have posted it if it weren't for you.

_What can preserve my Life?_

_And what destroy?_

"You know, for someone who claims he can't afford to die, you're pretty reckless," he muttered while wiping away the blood from the newly stitched wound on the priest's back. There was annoyance in his tone, but it sounded strangely dishonest to the other man's ears. Covering up for something? Morbid curiosity, maybe. What Vash had just said had been pretty lame anyway. If Wolfwood wasn't reckless, he'd never have come to really know Vash to begin with.

Still, the priest let it go. The silence that stretched on wasn't really a comfortable one, but most of what he could have said in return kind of sounded awkward to his ears – and the rest, the stuff he _couldn't_ voice, well, that could go fuck itself. He forced it down and focused on smoking and keeping Vash pissed at him. For all his "recklessness," he knew pretty well after all how to behave in order to stay alive long enough to finish what he had to do.

He exhaled smoke and flinched away from Vash's next gentle touch, smirking bitterly at the annoyed sound it drew out of Vash.

He had enough things that threatened to stab him in the back, anyway.

_An Angel's arm can't snatch me from the Grave;_

_Legions of Angels can't confine me There._

Frustrated, Vash stared at the broad, dark expanse of the priest's back in front of him, illuminated only by the candle on the table next to him. The blood was gone, but its smell still hung somewhat heavily in the air. The offensive odor seemed to always practically cling to them and he hated it, hated the way Wolfwood seemed to have accepted that. Like the way he seemed to have accepted violence and being drawn into Vash's fights, drawn into his pain and being hurt in reverse – it made him want to question everything again, it made him want to get mad at the priest, make him open up to him by force, unravel why it was that Wolfwood seemed to be certain that he hadn't much time left, regardless of whatever happened next.

Despite the anger he felt inside, he forced the movements of his hands to stay precise and gentle. (_If __he tasted__ Wolfwood's skin__,__ would he taste the blood? Could he make the stains vanish? If he__ rest__ his head on Wolfwood's chest, would he feel his hea__r__tbeat?_)

When the priest flinched away from his next touch, however, he drew back and stood up to move away, feeling strangely betrayed, and annoyed at both himself and the priest for that.

Glad that the darkness hid his face, he opened the window to let the night air fight against the irritating cigarette smoke. He felt a bit better after this – the stuff had started to make it even more of a challenge to see anything, and really, why did everything between them always have to be obscured and hidden, and by their own doing at that? – but he still turned away afterwards and headed for the other side of the room, brooding in silence. He felt helpless and frustrated, and the darkness suddenly seemed much easier to stand than the stars and the accusing sincerity of their light.

Over at the window, the priest made no move other than to light another cigarette.

His back was still bared.

In the cold chill coming in from the night, the flame of the lone candle flickered and died.

_To push Eternity from_

_human Thought,_

_And smother souls_

_immortal in the Dust._

Feeling his thoughts clear and his hands cool, Knives watched with satisfaction as the blood trickled away into the sands, taking the man's life with it.

It was done. Another plant was free.

Turning dismissively away from the body that would soon be smothered by the sand, Knives couldn't help but snort in disgust despite the sensation of accomplishment. The impertinence of these creatures! It was in no way understandable, the way they held onto their "life," the way they made their own survival stand above everything else, although their parasitic existence had as little significance as a candle in the face of the roaring power of the flame of nature's life.

But he would show them... he would burn their blasphemous fantasies of human "immortality" in their faces.

Crushing sand and dirt underneath, Knives stepped forward on the path that he knew lay clear and open before him.


End file.
